


Soul Atomism

by KillingDarthVader



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Black Mirror - Freeform, Blackmail, Hacking, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, really slow burn, tyrelliot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-11 00:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12310749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillingDarthVader/pseuds/KillingDarthVader
Summary: Think crossover between Mr. Robot and the Black Mirror episode "Shut up and dance". If you'be never watched Black Mirror, think Elliot blackmails Tyrell.





	Soul Atomism

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first released fanfic, so please, feel free to wreck me in the comments. There may be a part two.

Sitting in a dusty corner of the apartment is Elliot, typing  radically on the computer. The zeros and ones converging and dancing across the screen, gaining a hypnotic quality of movement that has no seeming end. The buzz of the computer alike to a fly, insistent and pulsing. He’s concentrating on his computer finishing the last few lines, then smiles a tight little smirk as he shifts his fingers to the enter button. He can imagine the spyware slipping oily through all the cracks of the antivirus and seeping into the hardware. Up pops a new window, completely wrapping around the screen is live video footage directly from a MacBook Pro. MacBook should be illegal with how easy it is to hack into. From the low viewpoint of the computer webcam the man sitting on the other end fills the entire screen, sitting stoically with tense muscles. With the way he carries himself there’s no doubt about a filthy secret festering inside his hardware.

After years of surveillance Elliot’s gained a sense of recognizing nervous ticks from people who don’t think they’re being watched. No doubt this man has something that needs to be uncovered, his clean and polished look itching that part in his brain that can just _tell_. Taking a line of sweat and salty powdered morphine from the living room table, he begins the task of shifting through every piece of file in the MacBook. Most of it is vanilla, unrelated to what he wants. Work, posed photos with an equally stoic wife, recipes for white Russian vodka. Until he stumbles upon a folder labelled “Louvre”. The man through the screen is still typing away tensely, completely unaware of a threat to his perfectly molded person suit.

Elliot’s not surprised by the findings, though it was stupid for a person to document this to leave it sitting around on a flimsy piece of electronic. Hes seen worse online at this level of sadomasochism, but what makes them incriminating is the many pornographic images of men tied up on their knees. The man is now sipping a freshly made cup of tea, his wife cutting herself a piece of pastry behind him in the kitchen. His poor wife, this strangers life would be ruined if the images where leaked. Not that it would matter. Elliot clicks to download all the “Louvre” And with contestant number four, the game is set to begin.

And your excited to watch it, right? everyone’s fucked up. The human race collectively get off on the sick things others can’t see. This game happens to be Elliot’s personal version of sodomy. And no one else is here to witness it except you, friend.

 A quick email is drafted up and sent, the man immediately reacting to a sharp ding of an incoming message. At this point he should be reading something as in,

**TYRELL**

**REPLY WITH PHONE NUMBER**

**OR BE EXPOSED**

With an attached image of Tyrell using one knee to push down another man into a mattress as he works on bondage. The best part was witnessing the exact moment relaxed facial expressions morphed into terror. Everyone had their own brand of terror; blatant dissociation, instant weeping, wide eyes and a soft jaw. Tyrell’s brand was a mix of anger and containment. His face a blank slate of apathy, but the locking of his jaw giving him away.

Through the shitty camera lens Tyrell takes a deep breath from his nose, holds in the breath, and punches in a response one key distinctly at a time. A ding on my side conforms the response.

**443-555-0159. What do you want.**

The tea on Tyrells side of the screen has been replaced by a bottle of Swedish vodka. Switching over to text from a disposable phone and his fate is sealed, If Elliot had believed in fate anyway.

**TURN ON LOCATION**

**WAIT TO BE ACTIVATED**

Tyrell glances at his phone then swigs from the bottle. Another line of morphine is also ingested in Elliot’s little dwelling. Just newfound friends taking drugs together.

 

* * *

 

**YOU ARE ACTIVATED**

**GO TO 162 MUMFORD DR.**

That’s the first fucking thing Tyrell reads when he sits down at his desk. He had nearly broken every glass in the kitchen last night and this is the first thing he reads today? Complete bullshit.

And he had to go blindly where these scum wanted to keep them appeased. He had known taking pictures was a bad idea, having the potential to destroy his career immediately. But he had needed a token, a remembrance of his dominance. He mutters din jävla idiot under his breath as recently laid out papers are shoved back into a briefcase frantically.

His pretty, but disposable, secretary stumbles into the office eyeing the way Tyrell smashes in page after page.

“Tell all my appointments I’m going to be out for the day” He states with feigned composure. She seems unsure but cautiously makes her way back to her desk, she was after all chosen because of her dimwit. As an afterthought he grabs the small handgun he keeps stuck under his desk and stuffs it in along with the sheets of pointless paper.

He doesn’t rush out of his office, but walks out with purpose and height, not giving the scum his dignity. He was going to get out of this arrangement, whether it be by coercion or force.

 The empty construction site the coordinates send him is quiet and isolated- it unnerves him.

**I’m here. Now what.**

Responding to text message orders was irritating and beyond demeaning. The civilized way to blackmail someone was through phone call. The passenger door opens startlingly.

“Get out. I’m not in the mood to be messed with. ” He snaps at the middle eastern man that had rudely climbed into the car holding onto a white box, eyes shifting around the car. Heavy perspiration was building at the start of his receding hairline, falling down the curve of his face in fat drops.

“T-they told me to get in the car” He spits out the words and avoids eye contact in favor of staring downwards at nothing in particular. This man didn’t look like he could handle himself, so if he wasn’t the ‘we’ from the texts, who the hell was he.

“What’s your name. Do you know who sent you? They didn’t tell me what I was picking up” Tyrell needed to figure out what game this was, and how this man could be an asset.

“Rohit” The stranger utters as explanation to the meaning of everything.

“Ro-hit, I need you to tell me what your carrying” Said Tyrell- stressing the it- losing any patience he had for this mono-word man. Why the fuck would they send him a care package with this scared little man. A ping sound, and the next task is on Tyrells phone.

**DRIVE TO SENT COORDINATES**

**BE THERE IN 20 MINUTES**

Gripping the steering wheel Tyrell starts the engine. The feeling of submission was chipping away at any resolve to follow orders he had.

“Open the box” He directs at Rohit, not interested in the person himself any longer, but the thin white box wrapped in a velvety red bow. Rohit hurriedly begins ripping at the box seams without more prompting. In the confines of the white square is wiring and switches, big electrical junk smashed in a small space. Tyrell grabs his phone for a hasty text,

**Tell me what’s in the box.**

Being forceful might not get him an answer, but it feels damn good. As prompt as ever, the ping arrives,

**20 MINUTES**

 “This is strange” Tyrell mutters to himself. Rohit snaps his head up from the box to look at the man in the suit sitting next to him. He contemplates for a bit, then accusingly asks “So what dirt do they have on you?” which ignites an inner struggle in Tyrell in whether he should leave just his passenger on the side of the road or make him take the wiring with him too. He takes a couple tensely silent seconds to compose himself, then replies, “You don’t have the jurisdiction to know” almost tauntingly, but Tyrell was too noble for that.

The building that he supposes was drop-off point turns out to unmistakably, from the giant security sign and green themed logo, a bank.

**Now tell me what the wiring is for**

The text is steeped in Passive-aggressiveness- if Tyrell was face to face with the perpetrators it would be pure aggressive assault- and hes hoping that the reply is that he is meant to throw it away. A ding comes from Rohit’s phone, who looks shocked at the timing, and looks back at Tyrell.

“It’s the blackmailers.” He states, “I refuse to give them anymore. They told me to get the box, I got the box. I got into your car not knowing who you where all because they wanted it. I refuse, they will just keep taking and taking because this how those people work.” Rohit is turning a slight shade of red that inflames his head.

“You can do this by yourself.” He jabs the phone at Tyrell, finishing off his tantrum. Tyrell takes it to examine,

**PLACE BOX IN MIDDLE OF BANK**

It’s a bomb. Of course it’s a bomb. He was being controlled by a bunch of arsonists with an affinity for hacking. He felt like laughing at the thought. The only decent thing about bombing this building was that it was closed. Tyrell is the one who receives a message this time,

**PICK: DRIVER OR INCENDIARY**

He appraises Rohit again, finding use for him.  “You have to set this up in the middle of the bank.” Tyrell gestures to the bomb as the other eyes them.

“No I will not do what they want.” He retorts. A ping comes from Tyrells phone again,

**DECIDE IN 30 SECONDS**

_Shit,_ they don’t have the time to be arguing about this. Tyrell types back quickly and lets out a long sigh. He cant let those pictures get out, that’s the only important thing.

“Get in the drivers seat,” He says while grabbing the bombs carefully in both hands and cradling them, “Keep the car running, and I swear if you leave me behind whatever pictures they have on you will be released immediately.” Grabbing a pair of sunglasses from behind the visor, he leaves Rohit with the lingering threat and makes his way to the building.

There where cameras strategically placed at the front so he makes his way to the back, hoping to be as discreet as possible at least before he sets it off. Tyrell can’t see any point to bombing an off-hours bank, no money to be pilfered with the drawers locked, neither any casualties that would happen due to the explosion.  Luck on his side, the back door was clear from any surveillance. Picking a lock was easy, a satisfying click sounding an effective hack. Most hackers tended to like picking locks, Tyrell supposed, the method of breaking in tangible opposed to coding.  He should have put those photos behind a steel vault.

Inside it was desolate, which was to be expected, but he was still careful to be silent walking through the bank. Along with the bombs there was a timing device pre-set for 5 minutes, and once that was set Tyrell left caution to rot and sprinted out. His car was still there, A sweaty Rohit peering around nervously behind the wheel. Slamming the door behind him he glares at the slow-to-respond driver and screams for him to drive.

His heart isn’t pounding nor spluttering, just a calm detached feeling flowing through his veins. “Where are we going now?” Tyrell softly utters to the driver, almost in awe. Rohit is speeding, with a manic look in his eyes, “They gave me coordinates to somewhere out of town, I don’t know where but they gave us only 50 minutes” Sighing, Tyrell messages his temples overdramatically. In 2 minutes a bank was going to blow up because of him, and now they where asking more of him. Getting his hands dirty could irrevocably destroy any chance he had at a corporate career. He needed to figure out a way to play along with what they want while still holding some degree of self preservation.

Earlier he had been pressed for time to make a rash decision that had put himself ultimately in an unfavorable position. He needed to change that. A loud bang sound came a couple miles behind them, and they could just barely catch the flicker of flames above other buildings. Rohit looked incredulous, as if he hadn’t expected there to be an explosion.

“You actually did it” He turned to Tyrell to say, “you psychopath. I’m sitting next to a psychopath.” At the end of his revelation it vaguely seemed as if be was talking to himself.

“You weren’t going to. I had to make a decision.” Tyrell rebutted. He wasn’t going to bother with moral obligations to a business intent on stealing as much money as possible, He had been working for one long enough to know there where no morals. Rohit’s manic eyes where disgusted, but really he was probably a hypocrite trying to give Tyrell the charade of having of being a societal normal. He wouldn’t be here if he was though.

Their final destination was a rusted farmhouse surrounded by a decaying orchard outside of the city, the perfect place for two people to disappear, Tyrell thought pessimistically. After almost an hour without contact from the metaphorical puppet master there’s a ping from Rohit’s phone, the owner immediately opening the incoming text. He swallows roughly, then relays the news, “They say you have to go into the farmhouse, and that I’m supposed to get rid of the car.”  

Tyrell’s only response is reaching down into his briefcase, and after shuffling though the objectively useless papers, pulling his pistol out. Rohit’s reaction is to start hyperventilating, begging Tyrell not hurt him. Now _this_ is something Tyrell is okay with, ecstatic even.

              “If we see each other again, ignore me.” He imparts before leaving behind his car to see whatever bullshit was hiding in the farm house. He didn’t expect anything. Sitting, strapped to a chair, was a human slab of flesh with what looked like a fat V for Vendetta mask. It was still breathing. Tyrell cautiously walked up to the center, there was a ping.

**DECIMATE HIM**

Above Tyrell was a hovering surveillance drone, his eyes shifted from the drone to the man and back. 

“Why?” he shouts at the man behind the camera, “Is this what gets you off?” He aggressively stalks toward the mask to rip it off, a pig with some stubble and morphine shot eyes underneath.

“Your name” he demands, his only measure of control.

“Fernando… Vera…” The pig snuffles out and the head rolls back.

“Well, Fernando, I think if I’m going to be killing you we should be on first name basis.” Tyrell says, placing the gun to the pink skin on top of the frontal bone. There is no whine of response when he shoots and rips a hole into the head.

The drone cackled.

 

 

 


End file.
